A Dangerous Bargain
The next morning, Harry sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, staring blankly at his plate of toast. The chatter of his fellow students buzzed around him, but his mind was elsewhere—on the boy he’d seen the night before.
Tom Riddle, alive and well, striding through Hogwarts as if he belonged here. The implications were staggering.
Somehow, the timeline had warped, colliding with fragments of the past. And now, Harry was faced with a dilemma: leave things as they were and risk everything spiraling into chaos, or confront Riddle and try to control the situation.
“Harry?” Hermione’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. She was frowning at him, her bushy hair tied back as she leaned over the table. “You’ve been staring at that piece of toast for ten minutes. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Harry muttered, forcing himself to take a bite. He chewed mechanically, ignoring the skeptical look aione shot him.
“You don’t look fine,” she pressed. “Is it something to do with Sirius? Or the Dementors?”
Harry’s stomach churned. He couldn’t tell Hermione the truth—not yet. She’d demand answers he wasn’t ready to give, and Ron would probably panic. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly. “I just didn’t sleep well.”
Hermione didn’t look convinced, but before she could say anything else, Ron dropped into the seat beside Harry, his plate piled high with eggs and sausages. “Morning,” he said through a mouthful of food.
“Blimey, Harry, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Harry managed a weak smile. “Something like that.”
That night, Harry slipped out of Gryffindor Tower under his Invisibility Cloak, the Marauder’s Map clutched tightly in his hand. He had spent the day agonizing over his next move, but he’d finally come to a decision. If Riddle was here, then Harry needed answers—and fast.
The map led him to an abandoned classroom on the third floor. Riddle’s dot was stationary, waiting. Harry’s stomach twisted. How had Riddle known to expect him? Was it a trap? He didn’t have time to second-guess himself. Taking a deep breath, Harry pushed open the door.
Tom Riddle was seated on the edge of a desk, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. He looked up as Harry entered, his expression unreadable. “Ah, Potter. Right on time.”
Harry yanked off the Invisibility Cloak and stuffed it into his bag. “How did you know I’d come?” he demanded.
Tom’s lips curved into a faint smile. “You made it obvious. Your little speech last night about knowing my future—how could I resist? The question is, why did you come?”
Harry hesitated. He had spent the day rehearsing what he would say, but now, under Tom’s piercing gaze, the words seemed inadequate. “I want to know why you’re here,” he said finally. “You don’t belong in this time. What’s happening?”
Tom tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “That’s an interesting question, Potter. But before I answer, I have one of my own. How do you know I’m not supposed to be here?”
Harry’s grip on his wand tightened. “Because I know who you are.”
Tom’s smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Do you? And yet, here you stand, unarmed, trying to reason with me. Either you’re incredibly brave or incredibly foolish.”
“I’m not unarmed,” Harry shot back, raising his wand. “But I’d rather not fight you.”
Tom chuckled softly, the sound low and dangerous. “How diplomatic of you. Very well, Potter. Let’s say I believe you—that I don’t ‘belong’ here. What do you propose we do about it?”
Harry hesitated. He hadn’t expected Tom to be so cooperative—or at least to feign cooperation. “We need to figure out what caused this,” he said cautiously. “If the timeline’s broken, it could destroy everything.”
Tom’s expression darkened. “Destroy everything? Or destroy you? Because from where I’m standing, you seem far more invested in this timeline than I am.”
Harry’s stomach churned. He had to tread carefully. “If the timeline collapses, it won’t matter who wins. There won’t be anything left.”
For a moment, Tom said nothing, his eyes boring into Harry’s as though searching for the truth. Finally, he nodded. “Fine. Let’s say I agree to… cooperate. What do you want from me?”
Harry’s relief was tempered by suspicion. This was too easy.
“Information,” he said carefully. “I need to know everything you’ve done since you arrived. Anything that might have caused this.”
Tom arched an eyebrow. “You assume this is my doing? Interesting. But I suppose I can humor you—for now.”
The following nights were spent in tense meetings, each one deepening Harry’s unease. Tom was charming, articulate, and disarmingly intelligent, but there was an edge to him—a cold, calculating side that kept Harry on guard.
They pieced together what little they knew: Tom had no memory of how he had arrived in this timeline, only that he had woken up in the Slytherin dormitory as though he belonged there. He had quickly realized something was wrong, but rather than panic, he had begun exploring the castle, searching for answers.
“It’s fascinating,” Tom said one night as they pored over a book in the Restricted Section. “The way the castle feels… different. Almost alive. Don’t you think?”
Harry ignored the question, focusing instead on the text in front of him. He wasn’t here to admire Hogwarts; he was here to fix the timeline. Besides, he already knew that Hogwarts is alive. Sentient .
But the more they worked together, the more Harry found himself drawn into Tom’s orbit. There was something magnetic about him, a charisma that was difficult to resist. And despite his better judgment, Harry couldn’t help but feel a flicker of admiration for the boy who would one day become Voldemort.
Their uneasy alliance was tested one week later, when Harry found himself cornered in the Gryffindor common room by Hermione.
“You’ve been sneaking out,” she said accusingly. “What’s going on, Harry?”
Harry hesitated. He hated lying to Hermione, but he couldn’t risk her getting involved.
“I’ve just… been trying to clear my head,” he said finally. “You know, with everything going on.”
Hermione’s frown deepened. “You’re hiding something. I can tell.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, the portrait hole swung open, and Ron stumbled in. “Blimey, Harry,” he said, plopping down on the couch. “You’re worse than Hermione with all this sneaking around.”
Harry forced a laugh, but his stomach twisted. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. If they found out about Tom, it would complicate everything.